Overnight
by Tyger and Darkdracofire
Summary: [BakuraMalik friendship fic, 2nd person weirdness.] Of late night, unexplained visitors, dripping wet all over your doorstep, and an irrational fear of the dark.


Yay for middle-of-the-night, Easter Sunday, end-of-Daylight-Savings fics, written while eating a Crunchie Easter egg.

Bakura-Malik friendship fic. Not enough of these around, in my honest opinion.  
Much thankies to Azy for betaing. j00 r0x0rs!

**Overnight.**  
By Tyger.

It was dark and cold and wet outside, when he knocked on your door. Late, too, but you didn't notice; you were always up late. So you meandered along to the doorways, suspecting nothing but vaguely wondering who would be visiting _you_ that didn't live with you in the first place.

And so when you opened the door and saw him standing there, you were surprised, but not quite shocked, because he was the only person you could think of who might visit _you_ that didn't live with you already. And then you saw that he was wet and dripping a puddle on the doorstep, and his pretty long hair was stuck down his back and on his face, and he was hugging himself and shivering in a valiant attempt to stop himself from freezing, though that was almost impossible when you were soaked through so far you were pruney, and starting to go blue around the edges because it was only slightly above zero out and sleeting. You knew this from experience. But that was beside the point! He was wet and cold and shivering, and so you pulled him inside and took him down the hallway, mindless of the fact that he was dripping everywhere and still had shoes on, and bundled him up with a dozen or so towels on the couch without a word. And he didn't say anything either, but he gave you a weak smile, full of gratitude, and you would have been surprised if he actually _could_ talk, his teeth were chattering that much.

And then when he finally stops shivering, and his hair is only damp rather than sopping, you give him some of your clean, dry warm clothes, old ones that you probably wouldn't wear out of the house but are nice and warm and fuzzy and perfect for when you're feeling out of sorts, and exactly what the situation called for. And then you override his protests with a strange sort of calm grace that brooks no disobedience, which you only ever seem to use in this sort of situation, and you're not quite sure where you got it from, but you think it must have been somewhere on your mother's side, and you lock him in the bathroom until he's changed. He is, of course, slightly miffed at this, and quite obviously feels kind of childish, but it's only a calm, everyday, friendly sort of miffed, and you can tell he's secretly pleased that someone will treat him like the child his is, even if he refuses to admit it even to himself. And you plonk him down on the couch again, and go and put the towels in the dryer, and his wet clothes, minus personal effects in the washing machine, plonk said personal effects on the bench and make two cups of strong coffee, while he makes himself comfortable in the masses of blankets now on the couch.

And when you come back bearing coffee, all you can see are his eyes and nose poking out of a multicoloured blanket-cocoon. And you sit next to him, stealing a bit of blanket here, pushing a bit away there, until you're comfortable too, and his two hands emerge from his blanket-cocoon to hold his coffee.  
"Warm now?" You ask, and he nods, and drinks his coffee in small sips, rather tentative because of the heat, but still, somehow, greedily. And you smile, fondly, and drink your coffee too.

Sometime later, you're getting the both of you ready for bed, though you're not quite so obvious about it as the statement implies. And he doesn't ask to stay over, and you don't offer, because you both know that's what's going to happen, and so stating it would be redundant. Just like you don't ask what happened, and he doesn't say, because you know it's none of your business, and it's just your role to make sure he's okay. Because, for him, talking about it just makes it worse, and you're his friend, so you don't need to know the _why_, as long as you can make it better for him.

And then he's dozing off, and you're about to go to bed yourself, it's so late now that even you notice it, and your hand strays to the light switch due to force of habit.  
"Could..." He speaks softly, you almost didn't hear him, and wasn't he just asleep? "Could you leave the light on?" And you look at him, a little surprised, as you wouldn't have thought he would have been able to sleep properly with such a bright light on, and then his eyes lowered, seemingly ashamed.  
"I'm afraid of the dark." His voice was no more than a whisper, but you can still hear the irrational, panicky fear in his voice. And so you smile in what you hope is a understanding, supportive way, and by the look of him you're not far off the mark.  
"Sure," You say, "No problem." And then you go to bed and sleep, though it's fitful, as the light is coming in your door and that makes it hard for you to sleep. You're the sort of person that needs total darkness to get any sort of decent sleep whatsoever. But, for once, you don't curse the light that keeps you awake, because you know the good it's doing in the room next to yours.

It's morning, and you'd forgotten about your guest until you go to make your morning coffee, and see him sleeping in a blanket-covered mass on the couch. And he seems so peaceful lying there that it seems a shame to wake him until you absolutely have to, so you get ready for school, and only make coffee as the very last thing. And, as you expected, the pungent aroma of coffee wakes him up, and you think that's not really such a bad way to wake up, and hope that it happens to you sometime. And so you give him his coffee, which he tentatively-greedily sips the same as he did last night, and it becomes obvious that this is the way he normally drinks his coffee, not just when he's half-frozen to death. And that makes you a little happier. And then you realise what the time is, and gulp down your coffee whilst telling him where his things are, and that there's food in the fridge if he needs it, and grabbing up his school things (who says men can't multitask!), and then you're running out the door, because you're late _again_, and you hope to any and every god that's listening that you don't miss the bus _again_, because that means you miss your train, which means you miss the _other_ train, which means you're basically screwed because although no-one really cares if and-or when you turn up, first period is maths, and you're really struggling, and that's only partially due to the fact that you keep missing classes because of your inability to be on time.

He calls out to you as you're squishing your feet into your shoes as fast as you possibly can.  
"Bakura!"  
"Yeah?" You call back, half-smiling, half worried-about-being-on-time.  
"Thanks." He says, and you can understand just what he means by the one, simple word.  
"No problem, Malik. No problem at all." And you smile at him, and show him your truth. And then you're running down the still-damp stairs (the whole six godsdamned flights), and you're going off to school, late again.


End file.
